


give you my heart, give you my shoulder

by Liviapenn



Category: Phantom Stranger (Comic)
Genre: F/M, Halloween, Pre-Canon, Romance, Yuletide 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:18:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liviapenn/pseuds/Liviapenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Marie Harrison Blake became Marie Thirteen, or, one holiday that Marie and Terrence celebrated their own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give you my heart, give you my shoulder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheepfairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepfairy/gifts).



Marie Harrison Blake is nineteen, and she's of the opinion that nineteen is an advanced, adult age. Far too mature for the usual Halloween silliness. No trick or treating, no sleepovers, no Kingsport High school dances, not this year. Marie has other plans.

She didn't buy a costume, but she's dressing up tonight.

It's only nine o'clock but it's already been dark for hours by the time Marie comes out of the bathroom. She glances out the window at the deep black night, then looks herself over in the mirror on the inside of her closet door. She's wearing knee-high black boots, black tights, and a matching miniskirt and turtleneck sweater. The overall effect is mysterious, theatrical. Maybe just a little spooky. Marie likes it. The only wrong note is her hair, blonde and eternally straddling the fence between being dramatically wavy or solemnly straight. right now she has it pushed back by a black Alice band, which looked quirky and cute a moment ago, but suddenly strikes her as childish. She sighs. Too late now to get out the iron and straighten out those waves. Or to dye it black, for that matter.

Her mouth quirks, and she goes back into the bathroom. She finally ends up parting her hair asymmetrically, letting a wave of hair fall over her left eye. Very sexy, very Veronica Lake. Marie smiles into the mirror as she touches up her eyeliner.

Terrence Thirteen isn't going to know what hit him.

*

Marie drives her Beetle most of the way to the old Kingsport cemetery, humming along to the radio-- it's mostly Halloween novelty songs like "Monster Mash" and "The Martian Hop," but occasionally they play something good. She sings along to "Satisfaction," drumming her hands on the steering wheel and faking it when she can't make out the words.

When she reaches the last bend in the road before Derleth Hill, Marie pulls over and parks. Closing her car door as quietly as she can, she tucks her bag under her arm and starts walking. It's cold, even for late October, and her breath is visible in front of her. She amuses herself briefly by blowing white plumes into the air, like a dragon or Marlene Dietrich.

When Marie reaches the gravel drive that leads up to the cemetery grounds, she keeps to the side, walking on the grass to mask her footsteps. At the top of the rise, she clambers gingerly over the low stone wall that blocks off the main cemetery grounds, careful not to snag her tights on the rough stone. And then she's inside. Easy as that.

Finding Terry is easy too. He's the steady spot of light about halfway up the hill, half hidden by a far tombstone, under the shadow of the trees. From this distance all Marie can see is the curve of his back, bending forward over something, and then she sees his arm move and the momentary flash of white as he turns the page of a book. Marie presses her lips together in excitement, exhales through her nose, and heads up the hill.

She doesn't actually manage to sneak up on him. She's maybe fifteen feet away, heart thumping, when Terry's head jerks up. He sets his book aside and scrambles to his feet, swinging his Coleman lantern up so that the light flashes into Marie's eyes. She flinches back, momentarily blinded, and he hurriedly lowers it.

"...Marie?" His voice is rough, a little hoarse. Marie hopes he's not coming down with something.

"Hi, Terry." Marie tries to sound cool, blinking spots out of her eyes. As she comes closer Terry takes a step back, catching his heel and stumbling slightly on the edge of the blanket he's got spread out against the back of Gladys Aylesbury's grave.

Marie picks a spot and settles herself on the corner of the blanket. Tipping her head back, she looks up at Terry. Terry's wearing dark blue jeans and a white button-up shirt under a black blazer, and he's got a long raggedy gray scarf wound around his throat and falling in a loop over his chest. He's holding the lantern down at his side, and the shadows falling up across his face on a slant darken and accentuate his features oddly. He looks older; he looks a lot like his father, actually. That same stubborn jaw, thin lips pressed together and dark eyebrows knotted in concentration. Marie raises her own eyebrows, and Terry turns his head away, scanning the night suspiciously.

After a moment he sets the lantern down again, carefully balancing it on the top of the slab-like tombstone. He sits down across from Marie, one knee pulled protectively up against his chest. There's a lock of sandy hair falling over his forehead. As always Marie feels the urge to smooth it back. She represses it. Terry clears his throat, tugging awkwardly at the scarf around his neck.

"Happy Halloween," Marie says, teasing.

"I don't celebrate," Terry says, automatic and humorless, because he's a Thirteen and that's how they are.

It's not really Terry's fault. There are basically two ways that people in Kingsport interact with the Thirteens. The first way is to ignore them, to let silence spread like a chill around them when they walk down the street or into a store. Or a classroom. The people who treat Terry and his father like that are are mainly longtime Kingsport residents, the Dexters and the Winstons and the Wolfes, all the same familiar names that you see on maps of these parts, and in the local history museums. They're the business owners, the school administrators, the deacons and elders at Kingsport Congregational; they're old families, and they treat the Thirteens like they're criminals. Like it's wrong for them to even live in the same town as decent people. Normal people.

The other way that people deal with Thirteens is to be sensitive and magnanimous and terribly superior. To make a huge production out of treating Terry and his father just like everyone else, and to pat themselves on the back for it afterward, clucking and chattering about how it's just too bad that some old-fashioned folk still believe in things like curses, and oh, you haven't _heard?_ Well, let me _tell_ you-- Marie's own mother does this. Marie has heard her tell the story a dozen times if she's heard it once. As if it's Mrs. Louise Harrison Burke's official duty to make sure every new family that moves to Kingsport (every summer resident, every tourist, every new teacher) knows everything that some people say about the curse of the Thirteens, about the solemn little boy and his father living out there in that rickety old manor house at the edge of the gorge. Going over the details of each sudden, tragic death (Terry's father's parents, his aunt, his mother) with smirking pity and delighted horror. Of course everybody knows there's no such thing as a curse, it's all just coincidence, but _still..._

"I guess you don't want any cookies, then," Marie says, opening her bag. Her mother had made a batch just this afternoon, and Marie had sneaked into the kitchen and packed them into a Tupperware before slipping out of the house. In deference to Terry's beliefs, she'd only taken the ones decorated like pumpkins, and left the ghosts, black cats and witch hats for her sisters and her mother's friends. She pops the lid off and holds the container out to Terry. He doesn't move to take one. Doesn't say anything. Marie sets it down between them.

"Why are you here?" Terry throws the words into the silence between them.

"Why are you?" Marie looks down at her feet, which are so cold she can barely feel her toes. She didn't pick these boots for warmth. She'd hoped Terry would appreciate them.

"Because last year on Halloween that yahoo Ben Winston knocked over my great-great-great-great grandmother's grave marker," Terry says, grimly. "As you know."

"I know," Marie says quietly. She swallows. "Do you really think he'd come back and do it again?"

"Him specifically? Probably not. But somebody else might. People have a lot of stupid traditions," Terry says. He says _people_ like Marie might imagine Martians: incomprehensible. Vaguely hostile. Infinitely far away.

"I felt awful about what happened, Terry." To Marie's eternal shame, she'd actually been going out with Ben Winston last Halloween. She still doesn't know if Ben knocked over Rachel Thirteen's gravestone on purpose-- specifically-- because he'd noticed his girl looking a little too long at Terry, or if he really just is an idiot who thinks running wild in graveyards and defacing tombstones is good Halloween fun. She may never know, come to think; when she found out he'd done it, she'd sworn never to speak to him again, and she hasn't. Ever.

"Why?" Terry says sharply. "Do you think Rachel Thirteen's _ghost_ cares? Her bones aren't even here. They're somewhere in Salem, where she was _murdered_ because idiots like Ben Winston always have to lash out when-- when something happens that they don't understand. Or when they're angry because other people are smarter than they are," he adds, under his breath.

Oh. So maybe it _was_ about her. Marie tries to hide a flinch as Terry goes on.

"The dead are dead, they don't care. It's-- it's the historic value that's lost when these monuments are damaged, that's my concern. That's why I'm here tonight. Why are _you?"_ He sounds more than angry now, he sounds hurt, like Marie is hurting him just by being here.

Marie has a lump in her throat. This isn't how she thought this would go. She raises her head and meets Terry's eyes, straight on. "I am very interested in local history and I brought you cookies," she snaps. "They are seasonal and they look like pumpkins. Would you please have one? I have hot cocoa, too." She rummages in her shoulder bag for her father's thermos and the paper cups-- oh, hell, she forgot to bring cups.

Terry looks as irritated as a cat brushed backwards, but he's always had completely impeccable manners and Marie knows it. He takes a cookie. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," Marie says, more tightly than she means to. Terry looks away, his shoulders hunching, and Marie winces. Every time she makes him flinch, it's like he's tugging on her heartstrings, too.

There's always been a connection between the two of them. Even now, and Marie still doesn't know how things got so mixed up between them. She'd thought-- well, at a certain point when they were younger, Marie really thought they were just sort of naturally growing apart. The way childhood friends just do, especially a boy and a girl. Suddenly all the other girls were best friends with other girls, and none of the boys wanted to play with them any more. Certainly no other boy in Kingsport would've wanted a girl as a best friend.

But Terry never had another best friend. He hadn't really had any friends. Marie hadn't realized she was leaving him alone, and then by the time she did realize, it was too late. He wouldn't let her back in.

"My mother heard you were applying to Harvard," Marie says, and if her voice is shaking it's only because she's cold. Terry doesn't say anything, and after a while Marie frowns and pushes on. "Is that true?"

"Yes," Terry says. "That is, I will be applying, early decision. They're my first choice."

Marie nods and pours some cocoa, using the the upside-down thermos lid as a cup. She holds it out to Terry. He takes it from her carefully, without touching her, then curls his hands around it, looking down into the steam.

"I'm glad you're not going too far away," Marie says, but he doesn't respond to that either. "Terry, I'll miss you," she blurts.

Terry's mouth firms and he looks up, coolly. "I'm not gone yet."

Marie nods, encouraged. "And it's only four years. That's not so long."

"Seven years," Terry says. "Not four. After-- I'll be going for my doctorate. I want--" He stops and takes a drink of his hot cocoa, lowering the cup . "That's what I want."

Marie swallows. "Seven years." It seems like practically a lifetime. "And after that?"

Terry looks up at her, his eyes dark in the wavering lantern-light. "After that, I'm not coming back."

This is her last chance, then. Marie's ears start to burn just thinking about what she's about to do. But she has to. She reaches out and puts her hand on Terry's knee, pushing his leg down so that she can lean over and look him in the eye. He huffs out a startled breath, warm and cocoa-scented, and she closes her eyes and kisses him right on the mouth.

Terry turns to stone under her hand, not moving. Not breathing. Marie tilts her head and presses just a little harder, then pulls back, blushing-- and Terry's hand catches her by the shoulder, stopping her. He pulls her closer, and now Terry's kissing her. A violent thrill runs from the top of Marie's head down to her toes, and Terry grips her arm tighter. He's kissing her over and over, a little clumsy, a little rough, and then he gasps and pulls back, breathing hard. He shakes his head hard, glancing around like he's lost.

Marie isn't exactly perfectly composed herself. She can't stop smiling. When Terry finally looks back at her, she beams at him, and he chokes on whatever he was going to say. His eyes dart away, brows coming down, and then he focuses on her again. He clears his throat.

"If this is a trick, it's beneath you, Marie."

Marie's eyes narrow. She bites her lower lip.

She knows Terry. She knew this wasn't going to be easy. _Isn't_ going to be easy.

She wants it anyway.

"Terry," she says, "I have never lied to you, ever, about anything. Have I?"

Terry stares at her, and then she can see him thinking back, considering her question. Finally he focuses back on her again. "Not-- Not to my knowledge."

Marie nods, and takes a deep breath. "I want to come with you."

"What?" Terry blinks.

"You have plans, don't you?" Marie's hand is still on Terry's knee, and she's squeezing hard. "I always knew you did. I knew that you weren't going to stay in Kingsport forever. Wherever it is you're going to go-- I want to go with you."

"You don't... Marie, if you want to get out of Kingsport, you can just leave," Terry says blankly. "You're intelligent, you're b--" He stops himself, then sets his jaw and says it, a flush high on his cheekbones. "You're beautiful. You don't need me."

'Third time's the charm' is probably one of those silly folk beliefs that Terry is too rational to ascribe to, but Marie gives it a shot anyway. "Terry," she says loudly, "I want to go with _you."_

"I... Marie," Terry protests, but he's not rejecting her. He just doesn't believe it yet. Poor Terry. He looks like he's still half in shock. Marie sighs and scoots around on the blanket, leaning into Terry's side and resting her head on his shoulder. He shifts closer, putting his arm over hers. He's so warm, Marie can't help but snuggle in. After holding herself tense against the cold for so long, the sense of relaxation that steals over her is almost intoxicating. "Marie," Terry says softly. "I'm... I'm going to be in school for the next seven _years..._ "

"So we'll have a long engagement," Marie says dreamily, and when she hears what she just said, her eyes snap open wide. She stares straight ahead into the night, still as a deer in the headlights. Oh God, she didn't mean to say that. Girls don't just _say_ things like that-- _Laugh, pretend you were kidding,_ her brain screams, but the moment has already stretched out too long and it's too late. Marie can't breathe. Maybe Terry's going to be merciful and pretend he didn't hear what she just said. That would be nice. Or maybe he's going to wait until Marie falls asleep and then run away to Cambridge and never come back.

"I won't be married in a church," Terry says into her hair, and Marie's breath catches. "I won't-- Marie, you know my mother's family over in Dunwich disowned her when she told them that she was going to marry Dad. I've never even met them."

Marie hadn't known that, actually. But-- "You called me intelligent a moment ago," she replies. "Do you think I'm under the impression that anything about a life with you would be normal, Terry Thirteen?"

"I-- I guess not."

Maybe it's the moonlight that makes Marie bold, or maybe it's the way that Terry's arm around her feels so right. "So ask me."

He swallows audibly, but he doesn't pretend not to understand. "Marie... will you wait for me?"

"Yes," Marie says, and it's a promise.

Terry's arm tightens around her waist and he turns his head, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, and then he's kissing her mouth again. He's breathing hard again, and he's kissing her, and he's learning fast. Marie curls her fingers into the short hair at the back of his neck and hangs on.

*

A long time later-- not long enough, but a long time, anyway-- Marie pushes Terry's hand down off her thigh. "I really have to get home before midnight."

Terry doesn't say anything, but he looks into her eyes, and he smiles, and he traces her cheekbone with the side of his thumb. Marie turns her head towards his hands, kissing the backs of his long, oddly aristocratic fingers. She's always liked Terry's hands.

"I have to go," she says against his fingers.

"Okay," Terry says. "Will you..."

"What?"

"Will you come to dinner this Sunday?" Terry asks stiffly. "I-- I'd like to introduce you to my father. I mean--"

Marie's met Terry's father, of course. But she knows what he means. "Of course."

"All right, then." Terry exhales. "Can I... can I walk you to your car?"

"What, and abandon your post?" Marie shakes her head, smiling. "Think of local history, Terry!" He smiles, and she can't resist kissing him one more time, just at the corner of his mouth. "No. You stay. I'm just at the bottom of the hill, I'll be fine."

Terry squints at her. Any other Kingsport boy, Marie suspects, would've insisted, no matter how much she tried to protest. But Terry is going to take her at her word.

"Of course," he says. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure." Marie fumbles around, shoving the cookies and thermos clumsily back into her bag. There's a little cocoa left in the cup, where Terry set it aside, and she drinks it down quickly, looking at Terry over the rim of the cup, then screws the lid back on the thermos. Which would probably be a little easier if she were actually looking at what she's trying to do, but she just... can't stop looking at Terry. That half-disbelieving look in his deep, dark eyes, that little quirk like a barb at the corner of his mouth that would be an ear-to-ear grin on anybody else.

"Marie," Terry says, as she pushes herself to her feet. "Thank you. For the cookies."

"You're welcome," Marie says, smiling, then turns and stumbles out into the night.

Blinking hard, she tries to force her eyes to adjust to the darkness outside the circle of Terry's lantern. She walks quickly, but doesn't lift her feet too far from the ground. It would not be a good end to this evening if she tripped and cracked her head on Terry's great-great-great-great-grandmother's gravestone.

By the time she's reached the low stone wall, Marie's night vision has mostly returned. She hops over and heads down the drive, taking deep breaths of the icy air.

 _I'm going to marry that boy_ , she tells herself, and her skin prickles all over with disbelief and delight. Marie Harrison Burke has wanted to marry Terry Thirteen since she was eleven years old-- practically half her life already. And now she laughs, because when she adds it up, it's perfect. Eight years of waiting under her belt. Seven more to go.

And at the end of it, she'll be Marie Thirteen.


End file.
